Princess
by kissingonconey
Summary: Donna on her wedding day.


Written for the Donna-Harvey Comment Fic-a-thon on LJ, posted under Allani there, in response to the prompt "fairy tale." It's pretty fluffy, so sorry about that :)

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If she were a fairy tale character, Donna would be The Little Mermaid. She doesn't know if the Hans Christian Anderson version explicitly had red hair, but after watching the Disney movie at seven and idolizing Ariel, she can't think of it any other way.

If she were a fairy tale character, if she were Ariel, she would be married on a big boat, her father and sisters cheering her on. Her father would be handsome, powerful, graying finely.

This doesn't happen. Her father slumps in his seat, eyes unfocused, and it's not celebratory champagne, it's the cancer eating away at him. He's glad to be there, but he's exhausted. And as much as she hates herself for thinking, Donna knows he looks ugly. Her sister sits with Donna's screaming nephew and tries to force little pieces of shredded broccoli into his mouth. Only her mother helps her dress.

If Donna were Ariel, her dress would be perfectly white, with elegantly puffed sleeves, and a translucent veil. It would be innocent, breath-taking.

It isn't like that at all. This is probably for the best, as that style of dress is out of date, but still, it's the not the dress Donna would've liked. She goes veil-less, feeling that there is little to hide from, and she goes cream colored because she is definitely not an innocent virgin. But a part of her wants the gown, the tulle brushing her feet, and the little gold crown that would really make her a queen.

If she were Ariel, her best friends would cry out of happiness.

When she stops by before the ceremony, Rachel's eyes are wet, but there's a sheen of disappointment and broken promise. Her date, Mike, stares awkwardly into space, strangely like Donna's father. Jessica, who Donna isn't even sure could count as a friend at all, is polite, cordial, and detached. Only Louis grins, kisses her cheek, quotes a touch of Shakespeare, and wishes her a quiet good luck. Except after that he does ask, "Hey, are you sure about this?"

And if it were a fairy tale, there would be a prince.

Instead she's marrying the marginally handsome stockbroker she met at a bar one day. He's not suave, or classy, and doesn't really like Italy. His name is Mark. His hands are clammy. He forgets to tell her she's beautiful sometimes. If they get the angle wrong, they kiss like two fish.

But then just minutes before she is going to step onto the velvet aisle and give up on fairy tale endings, he slips inside and places his hands on her hips. She can't help but melt immediately, and she brushes her hands on his broad shoulders, and smells the cologne, and wishes so hard that they could be back at the office, doing paperwork side-by-side.

"So I bought you a ticket to Paris," he says.

"Ah, for my honeymoon," she winks. But the way their hands clutch at each other make this not really a joke.

"Yeah," he says, and her fingers loosen. He grins that shit-eating grin. "Then I realized that you're not going on your honeymoon."

"Oh, really? I seem to remember you actually gave me two weeks off. After a hell of a lot of cajoling and whining. Do I even remember some fake tears?"

"You're not going on your honeymoon, because you're going to Italy with me."

"Right," she says, drawing out the syllables. "This is my wedding day, Harvey."

"I know." He rubs his head awkwardly, and finally looks a little chastised. "I know it's not the best time, but—look, I brought the can opener."

She's honestly confused, and tells him so.

"Our can opener," he says. "With which I want to open cans everyday with you."

She begins to laugh, but then his lips are on hers—she guesses he doesn't know what else to do at this point. They don't kiss like fish, they kiss like lions, pawing at each other with desperation, growling, panting. Her dress is wrinkled, just like his tie. He angles his hips into hers, and she can feel a hardness already.

But it's when he puts his forehead to hers and says, "You and me, Donna. You and me." That's when she feels herself burst into tiny little pieces, bits of light that shine and shine, and she feels beautiful, and every breath she takes feels golden.

She's not Donna anymore. She's half of him. She's the salt of the sea, she's a touch of air, she's the promise of the earth, the earth that grounds him and nurtures him and feeds and him, and he makes her feel like a root.

And then Donna remembers that even though the little mermaid didn't get the prince in the Anderson story, she got to be sea foam, and she got a soul, and suddenly Donna doesn't want to be the princess anymore, all she wants is to be his.


End file.
